


Self-Loathing (Oneshot)

by LemmyBornToLose



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood, Crying, Depression, Heavy Drinking, Intoxication, Male Solo, Other, Panic Attacks, Poor Life Choices, Regret, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicide Attempt, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:21:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27809026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemmyBornToLose/pseuds/LemmyBornToLose
Summary: Bjørn (31 years old, from Norway.) is having, well, one of his less spectacular days, infact, probably one of his worst days. Needless to say, he doesn't have the best coping methods to deal with days like these.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Kudos: 2





	Self-Loathing (Oneshot)

**Author's Note:**

> [I, AS THE CREATOR OF THIS WORK, DO NOT ENCOURAGE SUICIDE, SELF HARM, OR ALCOHOL ABUSE AS ANY MEANS TO COPE WITH ISSUES. IF YOU ARE REALLY CONSIDERING THESE, PLEASE SEEK HELP.]
> 
> [DO NOT PROCEED IF YOU DO NOT LIKE EXPLICITLY WRITTEN DEPICTIONS OF SELF HARM, SELF ABUSE, DEPRESSION, SUICIDE ATTEMPTS, HEAVY DRINKING, ETC.]
> 
> This is my first published work on Ao3. I've actually published a work before this, but it was much more poorly written than this is, so I disowned it.

Fuck... I can't believe I've just done this. Just a mere few minutes ago, I got into a fight with my mother over the phone, said a handful of things I shouldn't have said, and even told her to not call me ever again. I'm trembling badly from the panic attack I'm having right now, and I am sweating like all hell. I would apologize, but I'm too afraid, I wouldn't know what she would say or do, so I'm just sitting here, bawling my eyes out and wanting to die, hating myself more than ever. I'm such a fucking weak idiot who nobody likes... 

Now that I mention it, as a matter of fact, I might as well kill that particular weak idiot; myself. It would be good riddance for both me and others, I assure you. Plus, I keep promising to end my own life, but I never end up proceeding with doing it. I'm too weak.

I've decided that I'd let acute alcohol poisoning take my life, no matter how painful it might end up. I want to die downing the herbal liquid I love the most; Jägermeister, so I proceeded to get a 750 millilitre bottle of it from my fridge (along with a backup incase I hurl up the first one), and my plan was to drink it all. Proceeding to open the bottle and putting it up to my lips, I thought twice about my decision, but I still went ahead with it. I began chugging it, closing my eyes and letting the rush of licorice-esque flavour mixed with alcohol coat my tastebuds. It took about a good minute or so to drink the whole bottle, and there was no going back from there.

Now was the time to wait for the effects to set in. In the meantime, I got a razor blade from my drawer, and placed it on the underside of my left arm, right under my wrist area. My arms were still slightly trembling and it was hard to really coordinate things well, but I tried to keep control as best as possible. I pressed down hard with the razor, and proceeded to deeply cut into my wrist to relieve some of the stress I'd given myself, ignoring the physical pain that this brought me. I then repeated the same thing about a good three times on the back of that arm, cutting deeper each time and watching my blood gradually escape the cuts and trickle across my flesh. 

I proceeded to get out of my desk chair, and laid on my bed, sprawling with pure depression, hatred, and agony still flowing through my veins as I thought about every time in my life that I fucked up, even the more minor things in life. My left arm was still bleeding and its blood proceeded to stain my bed sheets, but I didn't care about that at all, not even the stinging feeling in each cut that I gave myself.

I began to feel woozy, either from the blood loss or alcohol intoxication, I couldn't tell. I'm not even sure what's going to happen next, but whatever it is, I would just have to deal with it. I live alone, so there wouldn't be any immediate help if something bad really were to happen, plus, death was what I was trying to achieve by doing this. All of a sudden, a burst of nausea hit me. I would have gotten a garbage bin to vomit into, but I was too dazed and lethargic to do anything that requires getting up, plus, I might stumble on the way anyways. It wasn't long until I felt it come up, and I inevitably hurled it all up onto my black shirt, which was now ruined. I heaved before vomiting up even more of it onto my shirt. Now I was all wet, covered in my own vomit, and more miserable than ever. I reached to my desk, opened up the other bottle, and chugged almost half of it, and that's all I remember before ultimately passing out.

Eventually, I woke up, my head and stomach hurting like hell, a bloody knife sitting next to me on the bed, vomit and blood everywhere, my room had been almost trashed. It felt like my forehead got slammed against the wall multiple times, my other wrist had been slashed to hell, the back of my left arm had a countless number of bruises and cuts, and my gut had some stab wounds, likely all from when I was intoxicated, and my plan didn't work. I just wonder how I didn't die, even with what I seemed to have done to myself while I was drunk. My throat was extremely scratchy from my vomit irritating it, and I would honestly finish myself off if I wasn't too weak right now to do it. I just seemed to put myself into even more agony than I already have earlier, and the urge for me to end myself is higher than ever.

In fact, I just now remembered my pistol in my nightstand drawer, so I reached in there to get it. I checked twice to see if it was loaded, cocked it, and put it in my mouth, the barrel facing the roof of my mouth. Now was time to pull the trigger, so I did, and lo and behold, the gun was jammed. I threw it against the wall with frustration and proceeded to lay on my bed miserably like I was doing. Eventually, I just decided to fall asleep, hoping that my injuries would somehow lead to blood loss.

[P.S. from the writer: Bjørn never died from his injuries.]

**Author's Note:**

> Writing is not my specialty and I am a lazy bitch who never proofreads. I might completely rewrite this thing later as I kind of wrote the second half while not thinking at all. Why am I even publishing this? I don't know.


End file.
